


The Last Beat of My Heart

by rosie_berber



Series: Mixtapes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Demon Dean, Destiel Daily Drabble, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mixtape, Porn with Feelings, Protective Castiel, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7249747?view_full_work=true">I'm Sorry I Love You</a>. You could read that one first, or not! Up to you!</p><p>In this verse, the narrative begins in Dean's absence, after the S09 finale. Within the present timeline, Castiel and Dean have begun to explore their feelings for one another, only to be interrupted by Dean's mission to take down Metatron. In the wake of loss and pain in losing Dean, first to death, then to the discovery of his demon nature, Castiel desperately hangs onto hope. An exercise in threading together how the bond forged in the past and trials of the present could lead to the happy future Castiel has been given a glimpse. Ongoing plot in the present and future storylines, but slow and steadily progressing ones.</p><p>Listen along with me here: <a href="http://hypster.com/playlists/user/rosie_berber?7190533">The Last Beat of My Heart</a></p><p>Board this ship and let the fluff swaddle you.</p><p> Update: I now have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p><p> - Rosie</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Beat of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author tries to begin to make amends for being such a jerk to these characters last time around. We kick off in the last moment of [I'm Sorry I Love You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7249747?view_full_work=true). 
> 
> Very brief summary of that fiction's ending moments: Cas is trying to cope: not only with the loss of a friend, but also, with the incompleteness of the admissions the two men had begun to make. Encouraged by a very well-curated mixtape Castiel had created, the two had begun to kindle the something that had been brewing between them for years. Before Dean pulls away, knowing he has a mission he has to finish before the two can move ahead. But he is gone before next steps can be taken. He leaves behind clues for Castiel - in music, in Chuck's words. It is enough for Castiel, to keep hope alive, to work towards the future to which Chuck has given him a glimpse. 
> 
> We begin with a peak of that future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration/song for this one is "The Last Beat of My Heart" by Siouxsie and the Banshees. Felt like the desperation of that track really gets at what I wanted to get at here. Also, Siouxsie Sioux is one of my idols, because she is fierce. Canon reference is to E07x17 (The Born-Again Identity), where Emmanuel once again becomes Cas, through memories of Dean. Always thought it'd be interesting if that last unshared memory Castiel has after smiting the crap outta those demons was a pleasant one of Dean.

* * *

_Reach out your hands I'm just a step away_  
_How in the world can I wish for this?_  
_Never to be torn apart_ _  
Close to you till the last beat of my heart_

* * *

 

**Present**

     “Hey Cas. Welcome home.”

     There is a part of Castiel that would be content to stand on this street corner, eyes shut, until the end of days. He is fearful if he leaves, rejoins the world of the living, a gate will be erected, prohibiting him from again visiting the tranquility of this place. Serenity in the form of Dean’s warm body pressed against him, away from heaven and hell and all that seemed to force the two apart. Paradise alongside a dock, away from Lebanon, a new home. A life he has envisioned once before. He would be happy to stay frozen in this moment for all of time, but fantasy is not reality. He lets himself hear the tires rolling along the asphalt, the conversations behind the closed door of the recently departed diner, the slight shift in the stance of the man across from him. Castiel dares to open his eyes, gathering all the strength in his nearly graceless body to ask a question of his companion.

     “Is it…”

     Castiel cannot bring himself to mouth the last word.

 _Real._ _I want to know if it is real_.

     Chuck places a kind hand on Castiel’s shoulder, mirroring the moment they shared some years ago. His eyes are tender. “It can be. We need to get to work.”

 

**Past**

     It is in the hospital's parking lot he discovers himself. The flash of five vignettes restores to Castiel what was lost.

     The electricity of the first earthly encounter in Pontiac, of shattered light bulbs and shadows of his true form, charges each and every nerve in his body. Irrevocably tethered to the man he had gripped tight and raised from Perdition.

     Van Nuys. A room beyond space and time, an homage to Kubrick. The room in which Castiel fully ceased to be a wavelength of celestial intent, the room in which the human became superior to the holy. His blood sacrifice an oath to free will.

     The broken wall. The moment for which a thousand years on his knees would not be enough penance.

     The apology as abominations abscond, his ribs fracturing as the stolen souls flee. The hope he hopes he sees within the hurt in hunter eyes.

     The reward for redemption. The water, a sunset, home in the hero’s embrace.

     Five moments in his existence, four past, one yet to be discovered. Awakening, allegiance, abandonment, atonement, Arcadia. An existence in orbit around one extraordinary body. An inescapable impulse. The man to whom he turns.

_“I remember you. I remember everything.”_

     In Castiel's mind, the two are one in the same.

**Future**

 

     Two legs dangle in the lake below, jeans cuffed at the knee. Two eyes of jade take on the incredible expanse of forest, sky and water in panorama. Two hands tap on the precipice of the aged oak dock, impatient, longing. Two feet lightly splash the deep blue upwards, finding solace in the hue.

     Two feet, clad in two sensible shoes, first tread slowly, then with a frantic pace toward where wood meets water. Two wings, stashed in another plane, wish to lift the angel towards its destination. Two eyes of azure begin to take in the details of the shadowy figure awaiting the sunset. The leather jacket preserving the heat of his body against the cool dusk air. The green of the pines he knows his awaiting him.

     Castiel sprints towards the home he has so desperately missed on his most recent absence. Home made not of concrete or wood or brick, but of flesh and freckles. Home that wraps his face tenderly. Home that softly, humbly, reverently meets his face with full lips and firmness as he lands just before the edge.

  
     “Hey Cas. Welcome home.”


	2. Pale Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Dean's POV, thinking about Cas's most remarkable attribute in past, present, and future. And the future is pretty damn fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song inspiring this chapter is "Pale Blue Eyes" by the Velvet Underground. Writing the gardening scene was way too much fun.

**Present**  
_Thought of you as my mountain top,_  
_Thought of you as my peak._  
_Thought of you as everything,_  
_I've had but couldn't keep._  
_I've had but couldn't keep._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._

     Having a place to stow away bad guys was always a major selling feature of the bunker for Dean. That is, of course, until he was suddenly considered the monster of the week, locked inside after he plunged the First Blade into the abdomen of Gadreel. As he paces the pentagram-bedecked floor, Dean Winchester encounters an unfamiliar feeling: fear. Fear that this time, he moved too close to the darkness he always felt inside him. The darkness Alastair saw and unleashed. The darkness he was sure pushed away everything worth a damn in his life. The darkness that inhabited the canyons between himself and an apple pie life. The darkness that kept him behind the wheel of the Impala instead of a white picket fence.

     As he can feel the mark flush with rage, Dean closes his eyes, trying to think about anything he can that will bring him peace. The feeling of steel against his fingertips under the Impala’s hood. _Fingers._

     The taste of warm cherry filling bursting to life every taste bud on his tongue. _Tongue._

     The cool calm of a freshly opened beer trickling down his throat. _Throat_.

     The soft vibrations of the buzzing bed releasing the tension from his shoulders, back, legs, his whole body put to ease. _Body._

     A pair of pale blue eyes boring into him the night before. _Eyes._

 _Fingers. Tongue. Throat. Body. Eyes._ He lingers on the last, wading into their waters, hoping to find renewal, seeking refuge in the everything they promised that Dean could not yet keep.

 **Future**  
_If I could make the world as pure and strange as what I see,_  
_I'd put you in the mirror,_  
_I put in front of me._  
_I put in front of me._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._

     Dean Winchester is a spy. He is sprawled in a wicker chair, legs outstretched over a ratty ottoman, pretending to be reading a worn copy of _Mother Night_ , while actually engaging in reconnaissance. His eyes move towards his target only when he is sure he is not going to be caught. A target whose movements and musculature he has memorized. The intensity of his puzzled stare when his surroundings elude him. The way he bears too much of his gums when he grins, as if smiling is an altogether new exercise for him. The satisfied breath he always exhales after his first sip of tea with honey. The gentle way in which his fingertips currently caress the stems in front of him. Dean has spent a lifetime studying the behaviours of a multitude of creatures, and the one in front of him is no exception. He is almost compromised by the warmth promised in the target’s mouth turning up, eyes fixated on the petals of a purple flower, clearly pleased about a development.

     “The asters have attracted the long-horned bees, as I suspected,” the gardener says aloud, to no one in particular. He turns his attention back to the flower bed, gloved hands pulling at weeds and tossing them to the side.

     As he lingers on the pale blue eyes turning once more away from the sky towards the earth, Dean can no longer study from afar. Seemingly in a trance, he finds himself willing to blow his cover: tossing the book aside, walking down the steps of the porch, holding the gardener’s face in his hands as he kisses his dirt-covered forehead.

     “What was that for?” the gardener inquires earnestly, tilting his head to one side.

     “Just for being you Cas. Don’t ever change.”

**Past**

_It was good what we did yesterday._  
_And I'd do it once again._  
_The fact that you are married,_  
_Only proves, you're my best friend._  
_But it's truly, truly a sin._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._  
_Linger on, your pale blue eyes._

     If there is something Dean is certain he has proven through his three decades walking this earth, it is that he would do anything for his brother. And at this moment, as the two brothers are once again reunited, on the road, Dean has never felt it more to be the God’s honest truth. That doesn’t mean it was easy, that there weren’t feelings of hesitation, to lose Cas once more.

     It hurt to have Cas back for such a brief expanse, to return the trenchcoat that had found a home in the trunk of every vehicle Dean had driven over the past months, only to lose its rightful owner so soon again. As they drive on through the night, Dean works his damndest to repress every feeling the past few hours had unearthed.

_Seeing Cas’s face. Meeting Cas’s wife. The pang of jealousy to which he would never admit._

_How it suddenly seemed to be clear best friends they were not. Best friends don’t feel their hearts stop when they look at one another. Best friends don’t look into each others eyes like that._

_Wondering how and why Cas couldn’t seem to stay dead. The surging feel of relief at that reality. The deep need in him to forgive Cas of all his trespasses. The confusing instinct to protect Cas from his past. His unwillingness to upset the poor guy._

_The way he tried to console Cas, the way in which his heart could not bear to hold a grudge against him. How he would have said no if Cas had asked permission. How his feet felt like concrete when they left the hospital. How he did it to protect him._

     As Dean and Sam hit the road once more, midnight eclipsing the day past, Dean looks to the road ahead, trying not to think of the man with the pale blue eyes he leaves behind, once more.


	3. I Only Think of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of mostly smut. Nothing more to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man! This fic is flowing through me. Song this time is "I Only Think of You" by the Horrors. Confession: writing sexts is hard guys! Eek! Enjoy?

**Future**

_It's so lonely coming down_ _  
_ _It's a long, long wait around_ _  
_ _It's a hollow, hollow day_ _  
__It's a long, long, long, long way, way down_

     Castiel has tried to keep himself busy in the absence of his better half. He has planted a small herb garden along the perimeter of the couple’s porch. He has tested out several new recipes from The Minimalist. Soups and stews. Fresh bread. Simple roast chicken. Cherry preserves. He has read every book in the pair’s small library. He has thoroughly exhausted the extent to which he can dust cobwebs from the basement’s dungeon. Castiel is finally willing to wave the white flag: he is bored, and he wants Dean to come home.

     He had left two weeks prior, accompanying his brother to the new “fixer-upper” he had bought three states over. While Dean had been hesitant to leave without a firm date of return, Castiel insisted he would be nothing of a nuisance, giving Dean his blessing to stay as long as he needed to transform the home into a space fit for human occupation. But as he fantasized about Dean handling the home’s plumbing, carefully navigating the electrical, sweat dripping down his bare back as he hung drywall, he nearly considered using his mojo to bend space and time, to go back and insist on accompanying him. He resists. With a substantial section of Whitefish’s liquor store selection coursing through his bloodstream, Castiel settles instead to send a PG-13 text message.

 **Me:** The image of your hands wrapped around tubing entered my mind this evening. I have to confess: it was alluring.

 **Dean:** …

     Seconds seem to span centuries.

 **Dean:** happy to hear yr confession, angel. 1 in return: theres a pipe id much rather be grippin rite now.

     Immediately, Castiel can feel his arousal spike. He is sprawled, belly down, across the couch. Suddenly, he feels a pressure building, a heat pooling.

 **Me:** Lovat? Bulldog? Apple? Churchwarden? Standard Canadian?

A grin stretches across Castiel’s face as a feeling of pride fills him, how he managed to be clever and witty even as he feels himself hardening.

 **Dean:** …

 **Dean:** no. yr cock. in my hands - unless u keep making lame dad jokes.

     The phallic mention has Castiel unconsciously seeking friction from the plush cushion beneath him. Finding its’ texture too soft, his hand quickly snakes down his pajama pants, wrapping his long fingers around his nearly fully erect appendage.

 **Dean:** no witty comeback? u occupied?

 **Me:** Yes.

 **Dean:** let me lend a helping hand

 **Me:** Much obliged.

 **Dean:** omg, even sexting u r polite. 2 good

 **Dean:** …

 **Dean:** well, let me tell u what i plan to do to you when i get back. ill start off soft - a long but chaste kiss at the front door. once we get inside, ill press u up against the wall, pinning your wrists above yr head. lick inside yr earlobe, nibble on yr neck before i move to yr lips, pushing hard against yr lips, forcing my tongue into yr mouth. kiss you hard while i unbutton yr shirt, slipping my fingers down yr sleeves, dragging my nails back up towards your shoulders. once its off ill use both fingers to pull at yr nipples while nipping at yr shoulder

 **Dean:** …

 **Dean:** u still there?

 **Me:** Yes. Please.

 **Dean:** hot. then slowly move my mouth down yr chest while my hands work at getting you out of yr paints.

 **Dean:** *pants.

 **Dean:** fucking autocorrect

 **Dean:** once yr pants r at yr ankles, ill put each of my fingers into yr mouth, getting them nice and wet in yr spit. shove my hand down to yr cock, grabbing it hard, rubbin you just how you like. U will give me that moan ive been missing and it will get me so hard. push my dick into yr thigh so you know how hot it makes me to see you come undone.

 **Me:** So close.

 **Dean:** …

     Castiel is sure that only a minute or two of frantic stroking passes, but it seems like an eternity. He can feel his release building in his belly. Part of him wants to reproach Dean for abandoning him in his time of need.

 **Dean:** [IMG_00406] attached

     There in all its glory - the perfectly hard cock Castiel has so sorely missed. It only takes a moment more before Castiel has thoroughly come undone, unloading into the couch beneath. He finds himself calling out Dean’s name as he comes, wondering if he can hear it so many miles away.

     As his breath settles, his heartbeat slows, his ecstasy rescinds, Castiel glances once more at his phone.

 **Dean:** miss u so much.

 **Me:** Come home soon.

     At least he has one more task to complete before Dean's return. The couch is in serious need of a good scrubbing.

 

 **Past**  
_As the flames wash around me_ _  
_ _I only think of you_ _  
_ _I only want to save you_ _  
_ _But I've done all I can do_ _  
_ _  
_ _To the end I would defend you_ _  
_ _In heaven I'd suspend you_ _  
_ _I only want to save you_ _  
__I only want_ _the truth_

     A legion of celestial warriors descending into the deepest depths of the inferno, navigating towards the cell of one man deemed worth saving. A figure they find bare, broken by months of burning. The pace of the plummet embraced with trepidation. The first reaches to the man, gripping him tight, and then, as quickly as they fell, those that are left ascend.

     No signs of the living radiate from the form in front of Castiel. Shredded flesh, no heartbeat, no breath, no electric impulses. The angel plunges into the man’s form, to the deepest caverns of body and soul. He bestows upon this figure his grace, carefully mending him from the inside out, leaving a piece of himself behind.

     As Castiel makes his way from interior to exterior, he admonishes himself for a new sensation rushing through his own state. An utterly shallow, superficial, human feeling.

_Dean Winchester is beautiful. I find him to be beautiful. The way in which his legs bow. The way in which his hair falls. The way in which his freckles are splashed deliberately across his skin. The way in which the green in his eyes seem to affirm to me which way to proceed._

     Castiel has been busy reassembling the righteous man. With reservations, he completes his task, hoping it is not his last.

  
**Present**  
_To the death I would defend you_ _  
_ _With my life I will protect you_ _  
_ _I know I'm gonna save you_ _  
_ _I'll do all I can do_ _  
_ _  
_ _Alone I'll beat the flames down_ _  
_ _I will defend your name_ _  
_ _I'll descend through the fire_ _  
_ _I will carry you home_ _  
_ _  
_ _I will carry you home_ _  
_ _I will carry you home_ _  
__I will carry you home_

     Castiel returns to the bunker from his breakfast with renewed vigor. Dean may be gone, but there is work to be done. To get him back. Castiel settles in the study, eager to take on the task.


	4. Cornerstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of hiding and seeking. Canon references to S08.07 (A Little Slice of Kevin), S10.01 (Black) and S10.02 (Reichenbach).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song this time around is "Cornerstone" by Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> Tangent: When rewatching the scene of Dean's first vision in A Little Slice of Kevin, I fully got distracted by how awesome Eric Burdon from the Animals is. You're not sure about that statement? Go watch one of the best live shows that probably ever happened with him, Otis Redding and Chris Farlowe on Ready Steady Go! Seriously, if I had a TARDIS, I'd go back to 66 and catch this show. No one has ever had more fun than during [this performance](https://youtu.be/RUcTKjOQWII). End Tangent.
> 
> It's so much easier to write about the sadness of canon when you have a happy ending in mind.

 

**Past**

_It was only a lookalike_  
_Nothing but a vision trick_  
_Under the warning light_  
_Close, close enough to be your ghost_

     There is no place Dean feels more alive than behind the wheel of the Impala. The soft rumbling his white noise, his mind at his sharpest. He tries to count the impossible number of pine trees that line the road, forests extending beyond sight. Trees that reach towards the heavens, trees that have breathed in the recycled air of humans for centuries. Their freshness filling Dean’s lungs, soothing, calming. One sense exchanged for another, he pops a potato chip into his mouth, savouring the salty goodness of road food. His ears too finding a sort of peace in the song resounding through the Impala’s speakers. Eric Burdon pleading to his beloved that there’s a better life out there, somewhere, for the two to run towards. It’s a sentiment Dean knows all too well. He finds himself comforted by the deep, gravelly voice of the singer, his iconic mop of dark brown hair, the suit, the tie. He is about to let himself belt out the familiar lyrics, no passenger to judge when he goes off-key, when his eyes are drawn to the side of the road. He only sees the man for a moment, and the image is all wrong. Bearded, disheveled, tired, feet heavily treading along the asphalt. Uncanny. But Dean could swear he saw the man’s eyes, the eyes that could never grace another’s face. His foot slams on the brake, bring the Impala to an abrupt stop. He turns his attention to the rear-view mirror, knowing there is not enough road ahead to run away from what he has left behind.

 xxxxx

  
     He’s upset about the abductions, really. People going about their business, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But there is part of Dean that is pleased to be back to work, to escape the mirage of the hitchhiker. He’s got a case, so his mind can’t be occupied with what he didn’t see on the side of that road. Or why he didn’t see it.

     The sleeping giant at his side, Dean plays catch up. Reading the details of each of the cases, trying to see some sort of connection, some commonness between the victims. But all there is is inclement weather and communities mourning sudden losses. Weather not unlike the current thunderstorm reeking havoc outside his window. The black sky shattered by blinding light.  _Unrest. Nature reflecting how they feel. Like there is a hole deep inside buckets of rain cannot fill._ He winces at a similar vacancy he feels buried under his chest as a flash of lightning illuminates the sky. The missing piece now in view, filling the void only long enough for it to burn when it was gone once again.

**Present**

_Tell me, where's your hiding place?_  
_I'm worried I'll forget your face_  
_And I've asked everyone_  
_I'm beginning to think I imagined you all along_

  
     He had agreed to help Hannah partly out of a sense of duty to heaven, partly to occupy his time with something other than thoughts of the other character in his happy ending. Finding Dean was proving to be more difficult than he could have surmised. Perhaps if he was at full-power, perhaps if he wasn’t leaking grace, perhaps then the task at hand would be less challenging. And so, he and Hannah discussed the state of heaven, so Castiel could neglect, for a moment, the state of his heart.

     And so the two hit the road, Hannah thinking out loud in a transparent attempt to convince herself of the propriety of the mission. Castiel making jokes about feeling like a million dollars when it is clear he is barely in possession of any grace. The two drive on, false witnesses treating commandments as suggestions. Within hours it would not be the sole commandment Castiel has broken.

     The stain of Daniel’s blood has only been washed away for minutes when Castiel receives the call. Sam.

     " _You need to get to Beulah, North Dakota -- now.”_

     There is a part of Castiel, a substantial part, that needs no further directions. Still, he manages to muster up enough dignity to not commit to be immediately on his way to the younger Winchester.

 _“I do?”_  
     “Yes. Crowley and Dean were there. We got to pick up their trail.” 

_He is okay. He is with Crowley, which of course is a very big problem. But he is okay, and there is a trail to follow. Castiel feels himself filled with hope._

_"Good. Great.”_

     Hesitation in Sam’s voice. _But for what? This is the best lead we have had in months._

_“Yeah, um...not so much. Cas...Dean's a demon.”_

      Castiel’s hand hovers over the chest wound Hannah had so recently healed. Something must be wrong with her grace too, as all Castiel can feel at that moment is his heart being torn to shreds as two black eyes look on. 

  
**Future**

 _I elongated my lift home_  
_Yeah, I let him go the long way round_  
_I smelt your scent on the seatbelt_  
_And kept my shortcuts to myself_

 **Me:** miss u so much. ****  
**Cas:** Come home soon.

     Dean nearly whimpers as he rereads the last exchange. There is no part of him that does not miss Cas. There is one part of him that misses him in particular, especially after the explicit conversation he had initiated. Hopefully covertly enough that Sam didn’t notice.

     “Dude, what’s wrong?” Sam extends another cold bottle towards Dean as he sips from a water glass. He quickly fell into the designated driver role for the evening, as one beer at the local hole-in-the-wall had quickly turned into “just one more.”

     Dean shifted uncomfortably in the booth, feeling both physically and emotionally compromised in the moment. He wraps his lips around the cool, smooth neck of the bottle, sucking down an outrageously long sip. It trickles down his throat, providing some relief. But it also reminds Dean that his lips haven’t been put to a better use in weeks.

      “Seriously? The silent treatment? What are you, 12?” Sam shoots an exasperated look across the sticky table, one he knows Dean will not be able to resist commenting on.

      “Bitch.”

      “Jerk.”

      Dean takes one more dose of liquid courage before confessing an appropriate amount for a middle-aged man with an aversion towards chick-flick moments.

      “Just missing sleeping in a real bed. In a house that doesn’t smell like a demon bachelor party. The morning after.” Dean delivers the coded message with a cocky smirk.

     “You miss your bed. That’s a weird pet name, even for you guys.”

      “Shut up Sammy.”

      “Go home Dean.”

      Dean quickly downs the rest of the beer, signaling to the server the two are ready to settle up.

      “If you insist.”

      As the two exit the bar, there is part of Dean that wants to hit the road immediately, debating if his requisite four hours are really necessary tonight. It only takes one stumble in the parking lot to know he is in no shape to be behind the wheel tonight. As he looks at the glistening black car in front of him, he concedes. He loves Baby too much for that.

     As Sam settles in the driver’s seat, Dean stretches across the back bench, ignoring some sort of comment from his brother about how he really should cough up the cash for one of those chauffeur hats. He closes his eyes, not caring that Sammy would take the back roads to get home, and that those roads took longer. He’s not sure if it’s the beer buzzing through his system or the way the crisp night air is soothing in his state, but Dean feels in a state of unadulterated bliss. Maybe, just maybe, he can admit it’s probably the lingering smell of honey on the seat belt strapped across his chest.


	5. A Case of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of unapologetic fluff and smut, centered around the idea of connection and purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song this go is "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell. There's a lot of fluff and smut in this one, but also, an allusion to one of my favourite theorists, Walter Benjamin. Yes, that's right, I am the sort of person who thinks about the philosophy of history while watching Supernatural. That sort of person is otherwise known as a nerd. In the essay, Benjamin thinks, through a painting from Paul Klee, about what human progress must look like from the perspective of "The Angel of History." He thinks the being sees it as "one single catastrophe, which unceasingly piles rubble on top of rubble and hurls it before his feet." He wants to pause and make sense of it, but "a storm is blowing from Paradise, it has caught itself up in his wings and is so strong that the Angel can no longer close them. The storm drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble-heap before him grows sky-high."
> 
> So yeah, fluffy porn and a philosophy treatise about the different orientations of angels and humans. That's what this chapter tries to do.
> 
> In all honesty, this is probably my most favourite thing I've written. Works out a ton of my headcanon around the "profound bond" between these two.
> 
> <3

**Past**

_I remember that time that you told me, you said_  
_Love is touching souls_  
_Surely you touched mine_  
_Cause part of you pours out of me_ _  
In these lines from time to time_

  
     “Certain people, **special people** , can perceive my true visage. I thought **you** would be one of them. I was wrong.” Dean breathes in the angel’s words, their truth unfolding in his lungs. A deluge of novel feelings that he pledges to himself to play off as a disbelief in God and his underlings. But the new that Dean feels coursing through his veins as he speaks to Castiel for the first time has nothing to do with his heavenly origin, and everything to do with the way in which Dean’s bones, tendons, blood, Dean’s soul are reacting to the presence of the angel. A magnetic pull that Dean’s brain shouts to stop, to no avail. And a deeply-guarded desire to know if Castiel feels the same.

  
**Future**

 _Oh you are in my blood like holy wine_  
_And you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet_  
_Oh I could drink a case of you_  
_I could drink a case of you darling_  
_Still I’d be on my feet_ _  
And still be on my feet_

     Butterflies. Dean’s got damn butterflies flapping around in his gut as he takes the exit off Route 93. Minutes away from the cabin. Minutes away from reunion. Minutes away from arms that make anywhere feel like home. He reaches across to the passenger seat, managing to blindly retrieve a stick of deodorant from the canvas bag bag. As he stops at the traffic light, Dean gives himself a quick hunter’s bath: a quick swipe of Old Spice and a few Altoids thrown in his mouth for good measure. He sends Cas a quick text to let him know the wait is almost over. He’s been on the road sixteen hours, but suddenly, doesn’t feel any worse for the wear. His palms perspire as he passes their local pub. A fond memory of the two throwing fries into each other’s mouth flashes through Dean’s mind. His heart races as he passes the local movie theatre, where they first saw Wings of Desire . As much as he wanted to dismiss the film for being arty and weird, he couldn’t help getting wrapped up in the narrative, the angel choosing a human he loves over heaven. As he pulls down the dirt road, his fingers impatiently tapping on the steering wheel, Dean admits himself: he’s fucking giddy.

xxxxx

     Since the abrupt but welcomed text message he received at 6 AM informing him that Dean was on his way back home, Castiel has been smiling. Not a shy smile, but a wholly unreserved, toothy jack-o-lantern grin. He committed himself to a day of preparations. He plucked some fresh flowers, placing a carefully curated vase in each room. He stocked the refrigerator with plenty of beer. He laundered all the blankets and sheets. He agonized for an hour on what to wear before settling on a navy button down and gray slacks, both neatly pressed. He took some time to shower and shave, making sure to use the soap he knew Dean secretly adored, the one that smelled like honey and cloves. He baked an apple pie.

     He was done by noon.

     The rest of the day, Castiel tried to relax. He took a walk downtown, stopping into the local pub for a quick bite. The pub had been the site of many a casual weekday date, and one particularly creative quickie in the bathroom.

     He walked to the local cinema, pleased to see that the “classic” film they were playing that afternoon was _The Wild Bunch_. Dean had made him watch it for the first time many years ago, insisting that the final fight sequence was true perfection. Castiel could almost hear him eagerly espousing about the film’s virtues, mouth still full of pizza.

     As dusk settles on the town, Castiel walks towards home, the home that would soon feel full once again. He settles in the comfy armchair with a copy of _Jane Eyre_ he had picked up from the used bookstore earlier in the day, but not before lighting several dozen candles around the living room. As he leaves his world for that of Thornfield Hall. At 10:45, his phone buzzes. He nearly knocks over a candle in an attempt to retrieve it in record time. It would be all sorts of bad for Dean to come home to a house fire.

 **Dean:** off 93, home in ten

     Castiel finally grants himself permission to go outside, to sit on the porch, to wait to greet Dean from the moment he pulls up.

     He settles on the worn wood, gently tapping his foot on a step. He glances at his watch, by his estimation, every ten seconds. When two lights come into view in the distance, barely visible beyond the trees outlining the perimeter of the property, Castiel nearly dashes headlong into the traffic. It takes an inordinate amount of restraint to wait until he hears the vibrations of the Impala’s motor transform from a whisper to a purr, then to suddenly cease.

     As Dean steps out from the car, Castiel cannot hold himself back anymore. He runs, sprints, plunges into the other man’s arms, showering his face with kisses.

     “Hell of a greeting Cas. Missed you too.”

     The words leave Dean’s mouth before he puts it to better use, meeting Castiel’s lips for a deep kiss, as if both of them needed its firmness to confirm it was actually real and not a waking dream. Dean abandons his duffel to the grass below, slinging his arm below Cas’s knees, full-on princess-carrying him towards the house.

     “Dean I am perfectly capable of walking back towards th-”

     “Shut up Cas. You’re ruining the moment.”

     Castiel mimes the action of zipping his lips and throwing away the key before putting that body part to much better use, meeting Dean’s lips for a series of tender kisses as Dean kicks the front door open, passing them through the threshold.

     As he takes in the darkened room illuminated by candles alone, he feels himself warmed by more than the flames.

     “You’ve been a busy little bee, now haven’t you?” Dean remarks, as he places Cas back on two feet.

     “Not as busy as I’m about to be.”

     Castiel closes the door with Dean’s body, lining him up against the wall, using each of his index fingers to trace his way down Dean’s body. The temple at which he could not worship these past few weeks. Slow and steady but with purpose. When he gets to Dean’s thighs, he ups the ante, rubbing his palms down the denim planes all the way to Dean’s boots. With reverence, he removes Dean’s boots and socks before letting his hands travel northward once more.

     “Gosh, I’m feeling so exposed,” Dean jokes, wiggling his newly emancipated toes.

     The barb is enough to make Castiel transform from tender companion to what the fanfiction community (maybe he had engaged in a bit of online exploration in Dean’s absence) sometimes referred to as his power!cas persona. He roughly places a hand on Dean’s chest, pinning him against the door, as his other hand quickly removes Dean’s belt. His two hands quickly make use of the belt, wrapping it around Dean’s wrists, an impromptu, makeshift leash, collapsing the man’s will into his own.

     “Let’s expose you some more,” Castiel mutters in an impossibly deep voice, leading Dean towards the couch. Once he is there, he pulls at Dean’s fly, quickly disposing him of his jeans. For a moment, Castiel fears he is too aggressive, too forward. That fear dissipates immediately upon seeing the tent formed in Dean’s boxer briefs. He loosens the restraints, tossing it to the carpet, pressing his thigh flush with Dean’s groin as he unbuttons his plaid shirt. All while refusing to turn his gaze away from Dean’s own. He wants to memorize the pink of Dean’s cheeks, wants to write a thesis on Dean’s trembling lips.

     His hands slip beneath the sleeves, pleased to feel nothing but skin underneath the shirt. He has nearly unrestricted access to freckled flesh, and he has very exciting plans of what he can do with his newly regained territory.

     He clasps Dean’s shoulders with his long fingers, using his strength to push Dean down so he is now seated on the couch. He pauses for a moment, tilting his head, grinning devilishly as he relishes the awe he sees in the face before him.

     “Not fair Cas. You know what that does to me.”

     “If a simple adjustment of my neck can do that, just imagine what my more flexible appendages can do.”

     Dean is saved from stunned silence as Castiel straddles him, pulling him in for a wordless kiss. The two quickly fall back into a rhythm, the muscle memory one acquires through hundreds of hours of practice. Dean rests his hands on the small of Castiel’s back as Castiel nips at Dean’s neck.

     “Fuck, I missed that,” Dean pleads as he grinds his cock up, silently cursing the multiple layers of fabric between his and Castiel’s flesh.

     Castiel stops the increasingly frantic motions of his hips. He clasps Dean’s face within his hands.

     “I missed you.”

     Castiel dismounts, leaving Dean whimpering at the sudden loss of friction. But his concerns and dissatisfaction prove to be unfounded, as Castiel quickly removes the last item standing between Dean and his birthday suit. Without caution, without warning, he takes Dean fully into his mouth, savouring the salty prologue that hits the back of his throat.

     “I...MISSED...YOU!” Dean shouts, nearly hysterical.

     Castiel quickly bobs his head up and down, with reckless abandon. He basks in each missed sensation. The way in which he could feel Dean’s veins pulse inside his mouth. The firmness of his shaft. The incomparable softness of his head. The head he suddenly feels compelled to fit as far down his throat as his vessel will allow.

     Dean slaps the couch cushion. “Fuck - Cas. So good.”

     The way in which he can make Dean do things like that.

     Castiel relinquishes the death grip he has had on Dean’s hips for a moment, to collect Dean’s hands and place them on the back of his head, the permission he so desperately wants to grant. As Dean’s fingers find their way into his hair, Castiel makes eye contact with him for one delicious moments, managing to smile while his mouth is stuffed.

     “You’re fucking incredible, you know that.” They are the last intelligible words to leave Dean’s mouth as he makes good use of the access he has been granted. At first slowly, steadily, he thrusts his cock deep into Castiel’s mouth. Dean isn’t sure has ever seen something so beautiful as the willingness and trust in Castiel’s eyes as Dean’s hardness disappears into him. Castiel’s saliva drips down his cock, pooling at the base, glistening in the candlelight. It is a splendid synthesis of smut and sentimentality.

     “Close. We should stop. Let me-”

     Dean tries to pull himself back, but Castiel refuses. He loses what inhibitions he still had, mercilessly, forcefully, rapidly moving his mouth up and down. He places his own hands on top of Dean’s on the back of his head. Remarkably, this contact, this decidedly unwholesome way to hold hands, is what sends Dean over the edge. As Dean finds ecstasy, there is a part of Castiel that does as well. His hard work is rewarded with the sweet and bitter taste filling his mouth. After he is sure he has consumed every last drop, he releases Dean, settling his body next to his on the couch, leaning into his shoulder.

     Between pants, Dean tries to protest, making all sorts of promises for reciprocation, but the phrasing doesn’t quite make sense. Seeing Dean in such a thoroughly undone state sends a surge of satisfaction throughout Castiel’s soul.

     He presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek.

     “Wait here.”

     “So now you’re leaving? One roll in the hay and -”

     Castiel presses one of his slender fingers to Dean’s lips.

     “Shut up, Dean.” He says it with the utmost affection.

     Castiel quickly runs towards the kitchen, fetching a silver tin and two forks. He carries it back towards the couch, where Dean is still outstretched, naked as the day he was born.

     “Welcome home.” Castiel lifts the aluminum foil to reveal the apple pie.

     In a moment of uncharacteristic seriousness, Dean turns to Castiel.

     “Thought life was just a series of misfortunes to drown in a well of whiskey. But then, you.”

     “You know, good things do happen, Dean.”

     Dean couldn’t agree more.

**Present**

_She knew your life_  
_She knew your devils and your deeds_  
_And she said_  
_Go to him, stay with him if you can_  
_But be prepared to bleed. ****_

Two beings whose essence once knew no borders, confined to the interior of a used car. A crappy used car, at that. Driving down a country road towards heaven’s biggest headache.

 _“Are you sure about this?”_ It is a question Castiel should consider carefully. Hannah had witnessed mountains move, watched waves beat into landscapes, pulling away grains of sand one by one. She had watched earthly alliances forge and fall between nations over centuries. His bond to the Winchesters stood in such stark, almost incomprehensible contrast to this patient construction and destruction. It must have been difficult to someone whose will was slowly shaped over lifetimes to understand how a celestial being could feel so drawn humanity, towards family, towards love, in a single heartbeat. A single heartbeat in perdition, when the angel had dared to look towards the true form of Dean Winchester, overwhelmed in its wake. Castiel wants to explain this loyalty, how it has become bound with his grace and will, but his search for the words is fruitless.    
  
     “ _If you wanted to stay behind…”_ Just because his own fate has become intertwined with a human’s does not mean Hannah’s fate must be the same.  
  
      _“I didn't. I just...Castiel...I think the Winchesters are a bad influence on you.”_ The words aren’t intended to wound, but Castiel can feel a piercing pain in his abdomen. For as much as he had embraced free will in all its messiness, it still hurt him that his intentions were so poorly understood by his brothers and sisters. _A bad influence_ was code for anarchy; heaven relied on hierarchy, on certitude. The desire for self-determination was embedded only in someone who was human, at least in part. From the angels’ perspective, the experiment with free will called human history was nothing but an ever-accumulating heap of disasters, one after the other. But where angels fixed their gaze towards the past, humans looked towards the future, towards that which has yet to be written, with eagerness and openness. The Winchesters’ influence on Castiel? To turn towards the future with hope.  
  
      _“Sam and Dean may be a bit rough around the edges, but they're the best men I've ever known. And they're my friends.”_  
  
     Hannah gently acquiesces.  
  
      _“I never get tired of looking at them. All those stars.”_

  
     She looks to the heavens for her home, as Castiel looks towards the road ahead for his.


	6. Where You'll Find Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter revolving around need and love. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song this time is Neutral Milk Hotel's "Where You'll Find Me Now." One of my favourite songs of all time. Canon references to S08x17 (Goodbye Stranger) and S10x03 (Soul Survivor).

**Past**

_Everyone barks and they are all still believing_  
_To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me_

     Flashes of olive, white, silver, crimson. His coat, the walls, the blade, the blood. It has all become so routine, so numbingly dull a process. The familiar indication the trial is over as he hears the click of heels walking along the linoleum floor. The fierce woman speaks.

_“No hesitation. Quick. Brutal. Everything's back in order. Finally. You're ready.”_

     The nightmare that plagued Castiel all throughout his stay in Purgatory is splattered and sprawled across the large, generic space. _He is in danger as long as he is at my side. I must protect him from what I have done, from my choices and their consequences._ But now, as the panorama is painted with the multitudes of corpses of the man for whom he had fallen, Castiel feels nothing. It hadn’t been immediate and he hadn’t gone willingly, but hundreds of altercations in, the faithful soldier has returned. Eyes that once held universes within them dulled and darkened vacantly accept the task at hand. Castiel will once again obediently serve heaven, even if that means Dean must die.

xxxxx

  
     The sterile warehouse exchanged for a derelict one. The routine rehearsed, the motions mechanically memorized by his muscles. One hit after another lands upon Dean’s face. And yet, as his eye begin to swell shut, as the blood begins to pool, as his lungs fight for each breath they inhale, Castiel hesitates.

 _“You have done this a thousand times, Castiel. You're ready. Kill him,”_ Naomi barks relentlessly, as if the fate of their kind rested in the cessation of the man’s pulse, the power he wields too intense, too volatile, too free to be tolerated.

 _“It's me. We're family. We need you. I need you.”_ Ten words. Banal. Insignificant. And yet, when strung together by this man, exhaled from his rapidly collapsing lungs, they are enough. More than enough. The plea not for self-preservation, but rather, a dying man’s last words. _An admission._ Ten excruciatingly common words are enough to break even the most powerful spell.

     When they are spoken by his one true love.

**Future**

_Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing_  
_Tear into me and the scent of you sweating_  
_Smells good to me_

     Nearly a full day on the road began to show its signs almost immediately after Dean had eaten _just one more small sliver_ of apple pie. His blinks elongated, his head began dropping, his body seemed to be melting into the soft cloth of the couch. Against many protestations of “not being tired” and “not being old,” Dean gives in to being led to bed, curling up underneath the warm navy quilt, asleep before Castiel could turn off the lights. Castiel finds his entire chest warmed at the image, finding it difficult to stop watching Dean so peacefully asleep. He promises himself to be quick in the washroom, brushing his teeth but not his hair, throwing his shirt and slacks in the laundry before heading back to bed. When he returns to the bedroom only moments later, Dean had somehow sprawled across almost the entirety of their bed, as if he was Atlas trying to hold up all four corners of the sky. As his fingers lightly touch the switch, Castiel cannot remember a time in his life he was happier to have to spend a night contorting himself into the remaining space on the mattress.

xxxxx

     When Castiel first dreamed, he realized he could hold onto a piece of heaven. No matter how trying the times were for himself and the Winchesters, there was a retreat in sleep. He was in the front passenger seat of the Impala, a stretch of road ahead passing through a seemingly endless expanse of meadow. He could feel the seatbelt pushing into his waist, was permitted to stand down by the army man still stuck in the ashtray, could hear the familiar sound of the plastic blocks clacking in the vent, almost as if they were teeth making contact. His little utopia. He turns his head to the left, basking in the warmth radiating from his driver, his comrade, his friend, his partner, his soulmate. A warmth that fills Castiel’s chest, that pours into his tensing and tightening. He shuts his eyes and for a moment, swears the Legos have finally freed themselves, feeling them grazing against his abdomen.

     As his eyes open once more, he feels the breeze pass over his body, not from the Impala’s window, but rather, the bedroom. And the sight he sees is better than anything he could witness through the windshield, as Dean’s teeth grip the band of his boxers, slowly tugging them down. He does not stop until he has passed Castiel ankles, freeing him from his cotton restraints.

     “Morning, Cas,” Dean whispers with a smirk so supremely smug sketched plastered across his face Castiel is able to make out its features through heavy eyelids with no more than the moonlight.

     “Dean, it is 4 AM. It is not yet morning.”

     “Got my four. Ready to wake you up the best way I know how.”

     There is part of Castiel that wants to admonish Dean wresting him from such peaceful slumber. There is a significantly larger part of him that is very pleased with Dean’s plan. Per usual, that part of him wins.

     “Sleep is not my _favourite_ of the human sensations,” he manages to mumble, somewhat convincingly.

     It is all that Dean needs to begin to make up for lost time.

          His tongue paints a path up Castiel’s calves.

        His teeth taunt Castiel’s taut hipbones, impressing tiny tracks.

          His hands pass over Castiel’s chest, palms wavering over his nipples until they harden to his touch.

        His mouth moves to Castiel’s, wrapped around Castiel’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently.

          His head finally rests on Castiel’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around Dean.

        His perspiration presses against Castiel’s naked body, the smell intoxicating.

          He slicks his hand with saliva as he smoothly wraps it around Castiel’s hardness.

        He makes slow passes down Castiel’s length, tracing his fingers along his veins.

          He allows his thumb to circle Castiel’s head, swiping over the top, pressing at it wetness.

     “Mmmm...Dean” mumbles Castiel’s mouth as he heaves his hips upward. The angel is under the hunter’s spell. “I need you.” He moves the hunter's hand to the base, guiding him through the pace of the strokes.

     Dean faces his head upwards, lining his mouth with Castiel’s ear. He takes in his earlobe, slowly flicking his tongue over one particular sensitive spot of Castiel’s anatomy as his hand works on another. He lets go only to whisper in his hear.

_“I have been waiting weeks for this. Waiting to come home and watch you unravel. There is nothing in this world more beautiful than watching your body react to me like this. I love you.”_

     By the time the word “beautiful” leaves Dean’s lips, Castiel is gone.

     “Deannnn…” he whimpers and trembles through it, his body positively out of his control in the throes, painting his tan skin with strokes of white. If the lights were on, Castiel is sure they would be shattered. It is minutes before his pants subside.

     “Worse ways to be woken up, eh?”

  
     “Definitely.”

**Present**

_But I let you down_  
_And swollen and small is where you'll find me now_  
_With that silver stripping off_  
_From my tongue you're tearing out_  
_And you'll never hear me talk_  
_Into you I will glow_ _  
Into you_  

     The first time Castiel wakes up, he is unsure of how his car has found itself in a ditch. He remembers the slow slope of the road ahead, the solitary need filling his system to get to Sam, so he could get to Dean. _Dean_. Saturated green. The colour was all he could see as he fell prey to the spell of the siren of sleep.

     The second time Castiel wakes up, on an unknown couch at an auto repair shop, he is uncertain how much longer his vessel will hold out. _Long enough_ , he prays.

     The third time Castiel wakes up, he feels the last vestiges of his stolen grace leaving him. _Adina_. He sees the panic in Hannah’s eyes, the … something in Crowley’s. Castiel pleads to them to let him go. There is a large part of him that means it - he does not want to, once again, rely on borrowed grace. But there is still a larger part of him that remembers the jasmine and the dock and the future he could feel that Chuck had promised him was real. And so, much to his own dismay, Castiel feels himself parting his lips, just enough to have grace flowing through his form once more. He accepts the glow not for himself, but for the family he knows the world needs. That he needs. That he loves.


	7. Remember Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about distance and memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Cat Power's cover of "Remember Me." It is really, really beautiful, beautiful enough to get me to write on a day where words don't seem to be my friend.

 

**Future**

You _remember when you were sick_  
 _You were cripple and you were lame_  
 _I stood by your bedside_  
 _Til you were on your feet again_

     The ringing of the bell resonates throughout the cabin. Castiel looks up from the pages of Swann’s Way, folding over a corner so as not to lose his place. He quickly closes the distance to bedroom where he sees Dean uncomfortably shifting across the sheets.

     “Please Cas, summon Death. I’m ready to go.” The words come from a strained voice behind the quivering lips of a fevered face.

     “Dean Winchester. You have been to hell and back. You spent a full year in the bowels of Purgatory. You have been cursed and cut, bloodied, bruised and broken. All of this, you have endured. And yet before me, a fearless warrior brought to his knees by … the flu?”

     “Shut up, Cas. And bring me a popsicle.”  
     “Is that how you ask?” A full minute elapses before either man speaks.  
     “Please.” The words are more of a grunt than a request, Dean’s full lips pouting in a way that Castiel should find to be pathetically juvenile, but can’t help loving.

     He returns with two frozen chunks of high-fructose goodness, just the kind Dean likes.

     “Cherry or grape?”  
     “Cherry,” whines the patient, propping himself up amongst the scattered tissues and blankets coating the bed.

The two men each attend to their treats. Castiel, feeling particularly obnoxious, takes one long suck of the frozen bar deep into his mouth, followed by three unnecessarily sensual licks.

     “Soon as I’m better, you will pay for that,” Dean threatens in a congested voice, his nose red and dry.

     The two sticks soon are surrendered to the bedside table, with Dean curling up into the fetal position as Castiel gets up to return to Proust, to let the man rest. He has certainly earned that much.

     “Cas…” The voice is reluctant, as if there is a request that he, after all this time, is still anxious to make. But Castiel does not need his words. He climbs behind the man, wrapping his arm around the excessively warm body, letting his fingers graze Dean’s chest, hoping the touch provides the ailing man some comfort.

     “Cas, please don’t leave me.”  
     “Never.”

**Past**

_I did know you were tired_   
_And you want to be free_   
_I need someone_   
_To stand just right by me_   
_All day and all night_   
_Again and again and again_

     His soiled hands dip into the cool waters of the river, taking in the reflection of a man he finds it difficult to recognize. Weathered and weary by the ceaseless wave after wave of Leviathan. Running from damnation and salvation, stopping only for a moment before taking to the forest again. Running from them, running from him, _running for him_. Castiel closes his eyes, the memory of Dean’s face giving him the strength to keep going. The details so vivid he can nearly hear the man’s voice piercing the air. The sound roughly rubs at Castiel’s ears. He looks for its origin, his heart in arrest when he sees the unmistakable silhouette approaching.

     Before he can react, he finds himself in the embrace of the man from whom he has been running. The man of no faith who nonetheless spend his last waking moments every night in this place pleading for Castiel to come back to him. The words that took every last ounce of Castiel’s resolve to ignore. The familiar temptation floods Castiel as Dean sways with him, side to side; the angel cannot help but give into his first moment of peace since they had plummeted into Purgatory. He allows himself one look at Dean’s face, caked in blood and dirt. _Beautiful here, too._

     The carelessness of the reunion only lasts for moments before Dean seeks answers. He hears the strain in the other man’s voice, and Castiel feels himself breaking. How desperately he wants to let the whole truth pour from his lungs. How he longed for the bliss he knew he would find at Dean’s side, a bliss he could not risk. How hard it was to keep his feet moving forward, never turning back, to ignore the pleas of his perforated heart to be once again whole.

_“I need you._   
_I'm not leaving here without you. Understand?”_

     Castiel affirms the question. _More than you could ever know._

**Present**

_I need your love_   
_I need you to walk_   
_All day and all night remember me_   
_Don't ever forget me child_   
_We are all only here_   
_Just for a little while_   
_Please, please .... remember me_

     The Continental rumbles to a start, moving down the road with an agonizing lack of speed. Five miles. I am five miles away, Dean. Please hold on, I am coming to you. The sweet comfort of Adina’s grace blends with each abrasion, repairing Castiel at a cellular level. But the unscarred skin is not an accurate representative of Castiel’s condition, for there are wounds within that even angelic grace cannot reach. A pain for which there is only one relief: for black eyes to once again shine green. For five miles, Castiel lets his mind fill with every glance, every touch, every sacrifice. Every joke, every flirtation, every lesson. Every admission, every affirmation, every kiss he hoped would punctuate each day he had left on this earth. Each mile of a foot resolutely pressed against the gas pedal spent remembering. And hoping, pleading, praying that Dean would remember too.


	8. Till The End of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter about endings and beginnings, about being there through thick and thin, about priorities.
> 
> Some headcanon here re: S10x03, when Castiel subdues Dean so they can finish the soul restoration ritual. I really do feel in my heart of hearts that Castiel's presence there is incredibly meaningful. In a sense, he grips Dean tight and raises him from Perdition, once again. And how he reassures Dean it's over while Dean struggles against him, not wanting to be saved but eventually giving in? To me, that is one of the most intense moments of love throughout the entire series: Dean allowing Cas, in some sense, to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Til The End of Time" by Devotchka! Canon scenes are happening in S05x18 (Point of No Return) and S10x03 (Soul Survivor). This shit is cavity-causing fluffiness, be forewarned...

**Past**

_Oh who put all those cares inside your head_  
_You can't live your life on your deathbed_  
_And it's been such a lovely day_  
_Let's not let it end this way_

  
    The quiet should have been a relief for Castiel, but it allowed for Dean’s words to play on a loop within his head. The chastisement had been playful, meant to point out how the angel was in need of instruction on how humans use body language, proximity, word choice to communicate. But the punchline stood in contradiction with the reality of which only Castiel knew. _Dean thinks I am oblivious. Let him continue to think that - I will not correct him. He must not know that my heart has become my master. That when I am around him, I am a vassal of this vessel. I order these eyes to turn from him and they defy me; this blood mutinies against my commands so it can be close enough to be warmed by the hunter’s heat. To be the fool is a better fate than to be cast out._ The quiet should have been a relief for Castiel, the reinforced steel eliminating the need for communication. But, once again, as his feet pace the concrete, as his voice calls out Dean’s name, as his fingers grasp the door’s handle, Castiel silently accepts his condition: he is a man possessed by another.

    It is only seconds before Dean’s hand makes contact with the blood painted across the cabinet. As the brilliant flash of light overtakes him, Castiel looks to the hunter’s eyes, seeing his transparent secret reflected in them.

  
xxxxx

    The piercing white light has given way to the darkness of night. He hears the man on his knees, praying with all the might in his lungs to his brothers and sisters. But in the background of the feed, Castiel can hear the thoughts of another, one who is searching for Michael, the dull aching exhaustion of a soul beyond its years.

    The soft jacket hits the hard brick wall, Castiel’s will and his vessel’s body unified by a singular emotion: hurt. The anger in his tone is a mask, for with every hit he lands, Castiel finds himself closer to sobbing.

     _“I rebelled for this? So that you could surrender to them? I gave everything for you - and this is what you give me?”_ The questions are an interrogation of himself as much as Dean. He does not want the man to give in, to give up - that much is true. He had attempted to say as much before, to register his disappointment that Dean would not withstand the pressure from Michael to remain the leader of Team Free Will. His frustration was doubled and differentiated when Dean had told him to blow him. But really, Castiel knows, deep in his core, that it is Dean’s nature to always offer himself as the sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered. He would always prioritize the well-being of others over himself.

     _I fell to earth for a man who does not think he is good enough to walk it. He will always give up his life for the world. But there is nothing in this world worth living for without him in it._

**Present**

_And everybody knows where this is heading_  
_Forgive me for forgetting_  
_Our hearts irrevocably combined_  
_Star-crossed souls slow dancing_  
_Retreating and advancing_ _  
Across the sky until the end of time_

    The bunker door closes behind Castiel just as a menacing red glow is cast upon its walls, an alarm blaring through its narrow corridors. _This is part of the plan_ , he tells his erratically beating heart. _Have faith._

    Sam’s words, his prayer, ready Castiel’s mind as he prepares himself for the task at hand - to wait until he is needed. _Castiel, I hope you are listening buddy. He’s on a rampage. I am going to try to hold him off, but I don’t have much time. He says he wants this, he says I’m not enough. He’s right. But we are. Cas, he needs you. He needs to know you still believe in him._ The prayer is accompanied by the taunts of a fraudulent voice. It is not Castiel’s heavenly nature that allows him to hear the difference, but rather, a humble human heart. Two sets of boots race through the halls as the lights once again shine overhead. Castiel waits. The unmistakable sound of wood splintering.  Castiel still waits. As he peers around the corner, he sees the man’s shadow cast across the grey brick. He desperately wants to run towards it, but waits. He waits as the hammer hits the concrete, narrowly missing the younger Winchester’s skull. He waits as a blade is pressed against Dean’s throat, a throat Castiel had not so long ago let his tongue run over.

     _“It’s all you.”_

    Castiel cannot see the wicked grin that takes its place on Dean’s face as Sam relents, nor can he see the pools of black fill what should be green. But he cares not, for after months, he no longer has to wait. He is ready to tell Dean he is so very wrong - Sam is not alone in his fight for the man’s soul. He is the single most important thing in Castiel's life, and he refuses to lose him ever again.

    He restrains Dean from behind, his grace flooding from his form towards the other. Not to heal, not to remove the curse. The only intention to embrace the lost soul, to plead for it to return home to him.

_“It’s over. Dean, it’s over. It’s over.”_

    The words are as much for Castiel as they are for Dean, as he once again holds tight the man unfit for damnation.

**Future**

_And look at you and me still here together_  
_There is no one knows you better_  
_And we've come such a long long way_ _  
Let's put it off for one more day_

      Dean presses the fabric against the rapidly hemorrhaging line. He has exhausted his options to repair the casualty in front of him. He turns to his partner, lost, looking for answers. Knowing what Dean’s eyes are asking, Castiel commands the grace to flow to his fingertips, to heal what is broken beneath his hand. It flickers for a moment and he listens closely for the pulsations that would indicate life. Nothing.

    “I’m sorry Dean. The refrigerator is dead.”

    Dean pauses for a moment, glancing around the makeshift kitchen in the cabin, the last vestige of its former occupant. “You done good for us. Off to join your Pa in the sky.” Dean raises his lukewarm beer towards the appliance, toasting with his patented blend of sarcasm and sincerity, humour masking the very real fondness he had towards Rufus. It’s an attribute that Castiel has grown to find very endearing.

    “You are ridiculous, you know that, right?”

     “You think I’m adorable.” Dean slides closer to Castiel, presenting his cheek for the kiss he knows the other man won’t be able to resist giving him.

    After his lips depart from the stubble, Castiel begins to make plans. A day of perusing the aisles of Home Depot for a new appliance. Maybe he could convince Dean to do something about the stove, while they were there. And it wouldn’t hurt to look at some paint samples…

    Dean can practically hear the gears racing in Castiel’s mind, visions of home-restoration-fairies dancing across his pupils. Dean really doesn’t want to spend the day in the stainless steel hell he knows Castiel is designing for him at this very moment. He needs to act fast. He pulls Cas in for a kiss he hopes will distract him from price comparisons and produce crispers.

   “What was that for?” Castiel asks, honestly puzzled by the sudden if not unwelcomed display of affection. He watches Dean scan for a plausible reason - it is only a few seconds of panic, but he is caught. “Are you trying to put off going into town? Really, Dean? You think I’m that easy to-”

    The sentence is interrupted by another full-bodied kiss. Just as Castiel opens his eyes once more, slightly panting, a devilish grin covers Dean’s face.

    “I can be very persuasive.”

xxxxx

    One hour and one very creative use of the chocolate syrup that was “just going to go to waste” later, Castiel finally pulls himself of the kitchen floor. “Alright, up and at em! Let’s go!”

    Dean pulls out the big guns - the big puppy dog eyes he seems to have borrowed from Sam, pulling at Castiel’s wrist, pulling him back to the floor, lining his shoulderblades up with the angel’s chest, initiating a familiar embrace. “Just five more minutes, I promise.”

xxxxx

    It was another hour before they pulled themselves off the floor. Sixty minutes of holding one another. Seven hundred and twenty seconds of looks of absolute contentment. And for the next four hours after that, they engaged in what they had mutually come to accept as the most pressing task at the moment: they Netflix-binged in each others’ arms, stopping only for breaks for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

xxxxx

    They eventually bought a new refrigerator (and stove). After three more days of nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.


	9. The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that pays homage to Sam just being a really good brother, and Cas and Dean recognizing that. 
> 
> We are nearing the end of this fic, just a few more chapters to go. I promise, no sad endings this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The song this time is another one of my all-time favourite queer-kid jams, "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!" by Sufjan Stevens. Love that song to pieces, and love all of you that have made it this far into this weird fractured love story with me.

**Past**

_I can't explain the state that I'm in_  
_The state of my heart, he was my best friend_  
_Into the car, from the back seat_ _  
Oh admiration in falling asleep_

    The wheels of the Impala spin towards Detroit, each man at his rightful place. Castiel’s eyes are closed, trying to find in sleep the peace he knew when he existed as waves. There is nothing he wants more than to find some other way - where Sam doesn’t have to sacrifice himself and Dean doesn’t have to survive that.

    _“You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me.”_

    In that moment, Sam thinks of of barbeques and football games. Of a life where monsters live in closets and under beds, where sulfur’s stench doesn’t ever again haunt his brother. He thinks of Dean’s happiness, his yet unfulfilled need to find someone who will save him from the solitude life has thrust upon him.

    In that moment, Dean cannot bear to look at his brother, so ready and willing to give up his life for the world. As he hears Sam detail the life he wants for Dean, the older Winchester, on instinct, looks in the rearview mirror. Only his eyes fix to the sleeping passenger rather than the road behind him.

  
    And in that moment, Castiel exists both in the world of the dreaming and waking, Sam’s vision pouring over him. He imagines Dean’s apple-pie life, trying to find his place within it.

 

**Present**

_All of my powers, day after day_  
_I can tell you, we swaggered and swayed_  
_Deep in the tower, the prairies below_  
_I can tell you, the telling gets old_  
_Terrible sting and terrible storm_  
_I can tell you the day we were born_  
_My friend is gone, he ran away_  
_I can tell you, I love him each day_  
_Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged_  
_I can tell you I love him each day_

    Castiel winces as he watches the syringe invade the hunter’s vein, using all of his resolve to not fall apart at the sight. He turns from Dean even though there is nothing more in this world he wants than to be at his side through this. Although they do not know it, he and Sam join in communal prayer that Dean will be okay. Soon they are squarely on the other side of the bookcase that obscures the dungeon door and its inhabitant from their vision.

    “What now?” Castiel seeks answers from the man in the sling.

    “We wait, I guess. See if it takes.”

    Castiel knows that the expression across his face is a special blend of panic, pain and impatience, and Sam reads it almost immediately. The angel sits in a chair, and without thinking positions himself in Dean’s direction, as if he is keeping guard, ready to spring into action if necessary. Sam gives a sympathetic squeeze to his shoulder before leaving the room, promising to be back momentarily.

    When he returns, the hand of his good arm clasps a cardboard container, within it, six cold bottles. He places the carrier on the nearby table and pulls up a chair near Cas. He hands Cas two of the beers, thankfully nodding in his direction as Cas twists the cap off each, handing Sam back one.

    The glass bottles clink.

    They sit for several a bottle and a half each before either speaks.

    He’s not sure if it's the slightly raised alcohol content of his blood, the butterflies mercilessly attempting to break free from his stomach, or simple exhaustion after months of holding onto his faith that Dean could be saved, but Castiel somehow musters up the courage to converse with Sam.

    “Sam, I never got the chance to thank you.”

    “Thank me? Thank me for what Cas?”

    “For calling me when you found him. The choices I’ve made in the past - my mistakes - they have often had very bad consequences for you. And yet, when you found him, you trusted me enough to call me - to let me help. I just wanted you to know - I appreciate the gesture. More than you know.”

    “I couldn’t do it alone Cas.”

    Cas turns from the younger Winchester, the flush spreading across his cheeks wordlessly speaking volumes to Sam.

    “No Cas, I mean it. You’re right, you’ve made wrong calls in the past. Believe me, I know what it’s like to live with something like that hanging over your head. But you have to know - I know why you made each and every one of those choices.”

    Castiel manages to respond, in a small voice, “You do?”

    “The reason you were the first one I called, why you were the only one I called, was the same reason I drove the Continental home that night in June.”

     _That night in June._ A flash of that first kiss, on the side of the road, hits Castiel hard. He speaks all the languages of man, and yet, at this moment, he struggles to find a single word in any.

    “Fuck it. I know you love him. What you’ve done for him, what you clearly feel for him - Cas, you’ve got to know, Dean’s never had that before in his life. And he might never have the words for it, it might scare him to death, but he’s never felt that way for anyone either. Until you.”

    His hands shaking, Castiel pleads for him to stop. He can’t hear this. Not yet.

    “Sam…”

    “You need to know Cas. I didn’t pray to you out of pity or as a last measure. I prayed to you because deep down I knew, if there was somebody walking this world that could make Dean want it all back, the the joy and the misery, the pleasure and the pain, the good, bad and the ugly, it wasn’t me. It was you. It is you. It’s been you for longer than I realized.”

    And then, in a moment that serves as mirror to one they had shared months earlier, when Castiel first found Sam outside the bunker, sobbing, the two men embrace. Only this time, it is Sam’s soft flannel that is stained with Castiel’s tears, slowly falling into Sam’s shoulder.

    “Thank you.”

    “No need for thanks.”

    Castiel lifts his head, wiping quickly at the moisture covering the dark circles under his eyes. Sam struggles for a moment to pop the next cap off the beer bottle.

    “I could…” Castiel extends his fingers towards the broken arm, alredy lit with grace.

    “No Cas. Not until we know he’s better. Not until we know he’s back.”

     _Until we know he’s back._ The future Castiel refused to give up on beckoned to him, a future that emboldens him to make a request of the hunter with floppy hair and kind eyes.

    “Sam, if he - when he’s back … could I stay?” The question feels too bare, so Castiel retreats to a comfortable cloaking mechanism. “To watch over him, keep an eye on the Mark.”

    “Of course Cas. Home is where the heart is.”

    Castiel recognizes the cliche, but at that moment, every fiber of his being screams its truth.

 

**Future**

_Trusting things beyond mistake._ _  
_ _We were in love. We were in love._

     _June 14._ The date is circled on a calendar posted on bulletin board, the date becoming an annual gesture of their indebtedness. The first year the celebration was simple - some champagne Castiel had picked up directly from its place of origin. The year after, Sam came home to the bunker to find a new occupant: despite Dean’s vehement protests that hunters and pets were not a good match, the couple had brought home a rescue dog to join their strange little family. Dean had even willingly allowed the “smelly mutt,” as he so affectionately called him, in Baby’s back seat from the trip home from the shelter. The next year was the first year apart from Sam, and they each sent him their version of a care package: Castiel sent a new book he thought Sam would enjoy each week, and Dean signed Sam up for an organic grocery delivery service. Each year, Sam insisted they stop, that all he had done was give them a tiny push. Each year he was told to shut up. And so, even though they hadn’t made formal arrangements, they knew Sam would be prepared for them. They loaded up Baby with five gifts - one for every year since that fateful night, taking turns driving through the night.

    Sam woke early that morning, afraid of what he would be accosted by this year. Dean had joked that at the rate they were going, it wouldn’t be long before they kidnapped him and threw him on a cruise around the world. He contemplated packing a suitcase fit for all locales, but recognized that would be insane. No one was that dedicated to making a point. I mean, Dean liked to put on a good show, but surely he wouldn’t commit any felonies to show his brother how much he cared?

    After Sam packed, he went downstairs to have coffee.  

xxxxx

    Just after noon, the newly functional doorbell on Sam’s beach bungalow rings. The man who jumped into the deepest pit of hell feels his hands clam up, heart race. He drags in a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever might be at the other side of his front door.

    “Surprise, Sammy!” Dean crosses the threshold without invitation, pulling his younger brother in for a tight embrace, Castiel following close behind, holding up helium thanks and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. The feelings of reluctance, paranoia and shock fade to content resignation. The three had faced the worst of what the universe could throw at them, each coming out the other side a better man. They had not only saved the world, but found a way to have their meaning, found their own happiness within it. To be honest, Sam couldn’t think of a better reason to celebrate.


	10. Such Great Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff and hey, look, more fluff! Allusions made to the Purgatory flashbacks, and canon-divergence from 10x03 (Soul Survivor).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this one is "Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service. 
> 
> Sidenote: I feel sort of sad to be finishing this. I really have fallen in love with these two.

* * *

_I am thinking it's a sign_  
_That the freckles in our eyes_  
_Are mirror images and when_  
_We kiss they're perfectly aligned_

 _And I have to speculate_  
_That God himself did make_  
_Us into corresponding shapes_  
_Like puzzle pieces from the clay_

 _And true, it may seem like a stretch,_  
_But its thoughts like this that catch_  
_My troubled head when you're away_  
_When I am missing you to death_

_..._

_They will see us waving from such great heights,_  
_"Come down now," they'll say_  
_But everything looks perfect from far away,_  
_"Come down now," but we'll stay..._

* * *

 

**Past**

     _“Where’s the angel?”_ Dean’s mind feels as sharp as the blade he holds to the vampire’s neck.

    The fanged beast inspects him deliberately, considering the question. Even if he could not smell the mortal blood running through Dean’s veins, the manner in which Dean’s heart is racing when he speaks of the angel gives him away. _“You’re him, the human.”_

    He repeats the question, singularly-purposed in his interrogation. _“Where’s the angel?”_ he growls again, his insistence met with simpered ignorance. He need not ask it a third time, allowing his knife to do that for him, plunging it into the vampire’s forearm. The distinct slice sound is echoed with a pained scream, but not a location. The dagger pins the useless creature to the tree as Dean picks up the makeshift machete, adding one more to his kill list but no closer to finding the angel from whom he had been ripped away.

xxxxx

     _“Where’s the angel?”_ Dean has growled the question through gritted teeth more times than he can count. There are few things he can count on in Purgatory - his faith that he will find Cas or die trying being one of them. And yet this time, the response is different, the subject of his interrogation distinct from the dozens before him. Dean sees something flash across his eyes. _Fear_. The expression is not unlike that which occupied his own visage during those first few moments in Purgatory. When his attention strayed only for a moment to make sense of his surroundings, aching to find Cas absent when his gaze turned back.

    Dean felt fear at Castiel’s absence. At first he thought it was the darkness and strangeness of the place, a waking nightmare, how he had landed there with an ally, a friend, only to have him cruelly pulled away. But as he tallied another day of survival within this realm, as the blood of monsters painted his skin, stained his clothing, Dean recognized he wasn’t afraid of this place. He was afraid of losing Cas again - that this time, he could not survive such a loss. And so every night, as Benny kept guard while Dean got his daily four, he found, in a place teeming with monsters, he was haunted by a set of blue eyes. His prayers were of forgiveness, of longing, of need, of that other four-letter word of which he never thought himself capable.

   _“You’ll find your angel there.”_ As Dean looks into the fear-ridden eyes of the monster before him, detailing the path that would lead him back to Cas, he feels his own dissipate. He wouldn’t lose Cas again. Not this time. Not ever.

 

**Present**

    “Where’s Cas?” These are Dean’s first weakly muttered words after Sam confirms that the ritual has worked, that while the Mark still has its home upon Dean’s arm, the eighth dose of pure blood has proven to be the cure. Sam embraces Dean wildly with his one free arm, the touch wordlessly expressing how relieved he is to have Dean back. He helps Dean to his feet, supporting his weight as they leave the dungeon together, Castiel waiting patiently on the other side of the threshold.

    “Let me,” Castiel offers, transferring the heft of Dean’s body from Sam’s shoulders to his own.

    “He needs rest,” Sam suggests, quietly, almost shyly.

    “Agreed. And so do you. I will watch over him.” Sam offers a warm smile as thanks to the pledge, leaving the angel and the marked man to stumble towards Dean’s bedroom together.

    When Castiel opens the door, the memory of finding it vacant in Dean’s departure pierces through his stomach. The weight of Dean’s body against his eases his pain, for it is a reminder that Dean is here. Fully and completely.

   It is not until Dean has the stability of the mattress underneath his legs that he dares to speak again. He strains to breath Cas’s name, exhausted, overwhelmed, not knowing where to begin.

    “Not now Dean. First, rest.”

    The hunter relents, allowing his body to fully collapse on the bed, eyelids feeling heavy. He manages to mutter a “Don’t” when he sees Castiel move towards the door, relieved when he sees it is only to fetch a chair to position at the bed’s side.

     “Don’t worry Dean. I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel gently reassures.

     There were many times in their partnership that Dean would protest Castiel watching him sleep. But even though he doesn’t yet have the words, his mind foggy and exhausted by the whole ordeal, he knows, this time is different. Dean knows _he_ is different, and it has nothing to do with the demon detox. The angel should have given up hope, should have given up on him. Instead, in Dean’s darkest moment, as the unspeakable need to kill Sam coursed through his system, he was embraced. There was no fear or hate or rage in Castiel’s arms - only warmth, forgiveness, love. And so, in the very bed where he woke as a demon months earlier, Dean does not fear letting his eyes close. He knows fully well that he will be observed for hours on end by the angel. And for the first time in his life, Dean lets himself give him that peace.

xxxxx

     His sleep was of the dreamless, thoughtless variety he so rarely gets to indulge in. It is from that serene darkness that his eyes reluctantly open.

     “How long have I been out?” he mumbles towards the angel still seated attentively at his bedside.

     “Going on seventeen hours now.”

     “Jesus Cas, you sat there for almost a whole day?”

     “Dean, there is no place in the world I’d rather be.”

     It takes all of his strength to prop himself up and meet Cas’s sight line, all his resolve to look into those eyes of blue that are so adoringly directed towards him. Dean has spent a lifetime fighting, and yet, he has always run from his most formidable foe: himself. So while his palms sweat, his heart beats erratically, while his lungs seem to be convulsing, Dean braces himself for the conversation he is finally ready to have. His eyes must speak volumes, for he is about to deliver his prologue when Cas takes hold of his hands.

     “Dean, talk to me.”

     The conversation lacks poetry. There is no comparing each other to a summer’s day. There are no perfect metaphors. There is a fair amount of stumbling, some unresolved issues, some disagreements. There are rolled eyes and exasperated sighs. There are hurt feelings that remain unhealed. There is an uncertainty that still hangs over each of their heads, and over a scar still branded on Dean’s arm. There is no prose worth being quoted in Facebook statuses. And yet, for the two men who share it, it is perfect, for what needs to be said is. It ends with a promise - that they will work towards happiness, that they will cease to proscribe themselves that privilege. That they will do it _together_. And it ends, as most declarations of love do, without words, but rather, in lips meeting in such a way that makes each and every pain endured somehow more bearable.

 

**Future**

      _Where’s Cas_? Dean mourns the absence beneath his arm in the darkened bedroom. He sleepwalks through the cabin, trying to find where his better half has taken off to. He peers through the front window, seeing a pronounced silhouette of mussed hair in the moonlight. Clad only in the sheets he had wrapped around himself to keep warm, Dean stumbles onto the front porch.

     “Cas? It’s 3:30. What are you doing out here?”

     “It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at the stars. I used to be able to look at them for what seemed like centuries.”

     Dean settles on the step next to Castiel, resting his head on the angel’s shoulder.

     “Five more minutes, and then we can go back to bed? It’s just...it’s strangely soothing. After everything, they are still there. Constant. These same constellations shared by so many.”

     “No rush. Let’s stay.”


	11. The Book of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author ends this story (for now).
> 
> Thank you for all your kindness and kudos, loves! It's been wonderful loving love with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration is "The Book of Love" by the Magnetic Fields.

* * *

_The book of love is long and boring_ _  
_ _No one can lift the damn thing_ _  
_ _It's full of charts and facts and figures_ _  
_ _and instructions for dancing_ _  
_ _but I, I love it when you read to me_ _  
_ _and you, you can read me anything_ _  
_ _  
_ _The book of love has music in it_ _  
_ _In fact that's where music comes from_ _  
_ _Some of it is just transcendental_ _  
_ _Some of it is just really dumb_ _  
_ _but I, I love it when you sing to me_   
_and you, you can sing me anything_

* * *

 

 

Cursed Or Not 

**Preface**

 

   What’s the stuff of the great love stories? Is it what compels Orpheus to descend to the underworld? Is it the spell under which Romeo and Juliet find themselves from the first time their eyes meet, a connection so strong that life without the other is a fate worse than death? Might Penelope’s sacrifices be considered, her years of waiting for her love to return? Would the visceral tension undergirding the verbal sparring between Lizzy and Darcy earn them such an honour? The bond Kathy and Tommy somehow forge amongst the horrors of Hailsham? Is a great love story defined by the pleasure two souls find in one another, or their willingness to endure pain after pain?

    These are things you should consider while you read this text. For this too is a love story. You need to know that, because for many pages, it will read like a tragedy. For while these two cared for each other with the full weight of their souls, their stars were, to steal the words of another, crossed. They would falter and fail; they would disguise their love as something that hurt less. Their blood would be spilled and stain one another’s hands. They would break one another, the regret of doing so leaving a far deeper scar than any physical wound. These two, they seemed incapable of escaping the fate that, despite the profound bond they shared, would put them on opposite sides of the battlefield. Because that was how the story that was written for them. Until they decided to begin writing the script for themselves.

    This is a love story, its author too humble to associate himself with the greats, with the likes of Virgil or Shakespeare or Austen. But what you should know about this love story is that, despite the author’s deficiencies, his novice capacity with words, he believes this much to be true: this is the greatest love story to have ever been told. For while every word printed in these pages is a failure, such sentiment unable to be expressed in mere words, it also stands as the record of their achievement. To stare into the darkness that can permeate this world and choose light.

-C.E.

    The muse is silent as her last whispered word finds itself typed across the screen. The writer opens his eyes, satisfied.


End file.
